(500) Days of Sherlock
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock said they should end their romantic and sexual association. What really hurt was Sherlock saying they could still be flatmates. "Oh, don't pull that with me! That is not how you treat a flatmate. Wanking in Lestrade's office? Holding hands in Baskerville? Shower sex! Come on! Flatmates my balls!" Reader, you should know up front, this is not a love story.
1. Doctors meets Consulting Detective

**AN: Not sure if I should continue and where this could go. Thanks for reading and apologies for any mistake. Not an English speaker.**

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><p><strong>(500) Days of Sherlock<strong>

**1 - Doctor meets consulting detective_  
><em>**

_This is a story of doctor meets consulting detective._

_The doctor, John Watson, grew up believing that he would never truly be happy until he met 'the one'. This belief stemmed from early exposure to war and death, and a total misreading of 'love' due to his lesbian sister's constant failing romantic relationships._

_The consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, did not share this belief. Since he was a mere teenager he only loved two things. The first were his long, pale arms. The second was how easily he cut himself and feel nothing._

_John meets Sherlock on January 8th, two days after Sherlock's birthday. He knows almost immediately Sherlock is who he has been searching for. _

_This is the story of doctor meets consulting detective._

_But you should know up front, this is not a love story._

**(240)**

Greg made his way through the crowded place. There was a boxing match on telly and the pub was quite crowded. It was not easy to get to the back of the place, where he knew his friend was. There were lots of men drinking, some of them were drunk and there were even teenagers. DI Greg Lestrade knew he ought to go and get them out, take them to the station, call their parents and made them promise they'll never visit a pub until they were old enough to drink.

But God, this time he knew he had no time for that. He was just going back home when he received a call. Apparently one of his friends was as drunk as a skunk and could barely speak, stand on his own feet and, at the top of that, he wouldn't stop crying and mumbling incoherent words about certain consulting detective (the only one in the world) whose name was Sherlock Fucking Holmes.

"Sorry mate," the bartender, owner of the pub, and one of John's best friends, Bill Murray, apologised as he pointed at the back door. "I know you've got problems with the missus, but I didn't know who else to call."

"What is it?"

Bill sighed as he shook his head, disapprovingly. "It's that bloke all over again."

"You did the right thing. Where is he?"

Bill opened the door of the back room. There, where he stored beers, wine, champagne, whiskey and all sorts of drinks served in a pub, there, sitting between the boxes of bottles and the broom, the duster and even the buckets with water ready to be used if one of their clients started vomiting or causing trouble, there was he. There was Johnny Watson, as most of his buddies knew him, drinking from a bottle of beer, drunk as a skunk, and silently crying as if he were a little baby.

Without exaggerating, Johnny was crying buckets and buckets and drinking as if there was no tomorrow and as if he had the most healthy liver in London. On the floor, there were several empty bottles of beer and a bottle of vodka too.

"John."

Johnny, as most people knew him, or John, as his boyfriend called him, stopped drinking and looked at the DI who was standing in front of him and looking at him with disapproving eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to help you."

"Help me how?"

"First," Greg said slowly. "put down that bottle. You're not drinking anymore."

Once John had what looked like a bucket of tea, he fell asleep in the back room, there, between the bottles of beer and the broom and the duster while Greg kicked the teenagers out of the pub and Bill made everything within his power to keep his clients happy since two of his three employees called in sick and he and another guy, who had no idea how a pub worked, had to manage until the boxing match ended and they could close the place and clean.

John woke up when the pub was silent, the tables were empty and clean and when Greg and Billy were calmly having coffee on the counter. Greg was calling his wife and was telling her something happened at the office. Bill was counting the money and looking miserable as he realised he had not earned as much money as he had predicted he would.

"My head hurts."

"Of course it hurts, Johnny." Bill said as he poured some coffee for John. "Drank seven beers and half a bottle of vodka."

John swore under his breath. He drank the coffee all at once and soon he was asking for another cup. "More." He gulped that second cup of coffee and saw Greg sitting next to Bill behind the counter. "Does your wife know you're here? It's..." he checked on his watch, but couldn't tell what time was it. "What time is it?"

"2 am." Bill answered.

"Shit."

Greg smiled at him, just a bit. "Don't worry. Start from the beginning and tell us what happened."

And this is how this story starts. On the 241-_ish_ day of their relationship (if they haven't broken up yet), John recalled the events of the previous day: waking up next to Sherlock, having shower sex with Sherlock, drinking tea with Sherlock, going out for lunch with Sherlock, holding hands with Sherlock on their way back to Baker Street, watching Crimewatch with Sherlock and, finally, being _dumped_ by Sherlock.

He told all of it to his friends. John didn't spare his friends any details. He told them how lovely Sherlock looked when he woke up, how deliciously he smelled after a shower, how Sherlock licked his lips when he drank tea, how Sherlock prefers Chinese over Italian (John's favourite), how soft Sherlock's hands are always soft to his touch, how much Sherlock criticised Crimewatch and then...

Greg spoke first. "And then what?"

John was going through Sherlock's website. It was a good night and neither of them had things to do. John decided it was time for Sherlock to take a case so that way the detective wouldn't be bored. He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock's inbox filled in with emails of people asking him to find their missing cats, to investigate whether their wives and husbands were cheating on them or not, asking him to check whether their aunt's ashes where hers or not when Sherlock, from his chair across his, told him what John thought would never hear.

"We should end our romantic and sexual association."

Bill looked at John's bloodshot eyes. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"And what did he say?"

John explained his friends how Sherlock started deducing, like a machine, the pros and cons of their relationship and concluded, saying it was or the best, when he had actually spoken a monologue about himself, and not them, that they ought to stop seeing each other (as lovers).

"This is not normal."

John frowned. "Normal? What do you mean?"

"This!" Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the whole world. "Us! We are practically together all the time!"

"And? I thought you enjoyed it!"

"Enjoyed it?" Sherlock asked. Then, suddenly, John realised his definition of 'enjoy' wasn't like Sherlock's. John's definition of 'enjoy' was Sherlock's definition for 'not normal'. "You really think that shower sex, breakfast, lunch and holding hands are things I enjoy?"

John couldn't believe it. "Well, yes!"

"No!" Sherlock replied. And then, he just switched off and changed his expression. "Anyhow, let's just finish watching this and then we'll talk about it." The detective continued drinking his tea and watching Crimewatch as if nothing had happened. "This tea if surprisingly good..." But then Sherlock noticed John was staring at him with angry eyes and closed fists. "What?"

The doctor stood up and took his jacket. He decided he just had enough. Enough crimes, enough sulking, enough running across London, enough of that man, Mycroft and his stupid umbrella, enough of their landlady and her herbal soothers, enough of those experiments in the fridge, enough of those body parts in the microwave, and finally, enough of Sherlock Holmes.

"John, don't. You're still my flatmate..."

_Flatmate._

John was Sherlock's flatmate?

Just his _flatmate_?

Having sex like rabbits, then shower sex, kissing and wanking in Lestrade's office, holding hands in Baskerville, living together as 'boyfriends' and Sherlock Holmes considered him his 'flatmate'?

Bill shook his head. "Jesus."

"Here," Greg said as he poured John a drink. For all the things John said, he needed a real drink rather than another cup of sugarless coffee. And once John finished his drink, Greg pulled the bottle and the empty glass away. "Okay. Let's be rational."

John nodded. "Let's."

"You've broken up with girls and blokes before, right."

"Right."

"And girls and blokes have broken up with you before, right." Bill added.

John pulled a face. "This is different."

"Why?"

"Because it's Sherlock."

Bill chuckled. "Come on, Johnny. He wasn't _that_ special."

Soon, Bill felt Greg and John's eyes on him. Really, that Sherlock Holmes bloke wasn't that special, was he? He was just some peculiar chap John met and became crazy about him, but hey, girls and blokes come and go, there are plenty of fishes on the sea and soon Sherlock Holmes would be another story to tell when John was drunk, Bill thought.

"You'll find someone else, Johnny." Bill said, because John needed to be cheered up and because it was damn true. "You're the best chap I know. You'll get over 'im."

Or maybe not.

Bill kicked Greg's leg under the counter. "Yes, Bill's right. Plenty other fish on the sea."

"No."

"It's fucking true," Bill agreed. "So they say."

"Well, they're lying, Bill. It isn't true. This is the one I've looking for and I don't wanna get over him." John said, taking the bottle back and drinking from it and not caring to look for a glass. "I want to get him back."


	2. Doctor falls for Consulting Detective

**(1)**

Ella was being silly again. All psychiatrists were. A blog, really? Such thing could never help him. Because, really, who would like to read about about a wounded soldier, a doctor no one wanted to hire, a man with practically no reason to live? Ella was nuts. Definitely.

Ah, Mike Stamford. Yes, he was definitely fat. John remember their old days enchanting women, taking them for a drink and finally waking up, the following morning, with a nice young thing next to them. Apparently Mike was teaching young boys like they used to be. Mike was married, had children, a nice house, a dog and more than twenty pounds he should lose.

And as for John... John Watson had just returned from the war with a wounded shoulder, a psychosomatic limp and a problem about socialising. He could no longer afford London with an Army pension and Harry would never help.

It is always good to see old friends. But is a bit not good when they laugh at you when you say no one would ever want you as a flatmate. Was Mike laughing at him? Really?

Oh no.

Had John known why Mike was laughing, he wouldn't have looked at him they way he did.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

John didn't give it a second thought. "Who's the first?"

Mike called someone and as soon as he finished the call, he assured John he knew the right person he could talk to if he wanted to get a flatshare. John was quite unsure about this while they walked to Bart's where this guy was right now (was he a doctor? John hoped so. Doctors were generally responsible people) and while Mike talked about his successful wife who was a lawyer and about his noisy children.

John believed in destiny, planets, and people meant to be. So when he met Sherlock Holmes, he knew he was 'the one'.

"You told him about me?" John asked, though he had heard Mike calling Sherlock before they met and he knew Mike hadn't said a word.

Mike shook his head, but he beamed. He _beamed_. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

And then, just as if he had guessed his intentions, John's challenging intentions, Sherlock played his part. He explained how he had told Mike he was a difficult man to find a flatmate for, that how he got to the conclusion he was also looking for a flatshare, and he, above all things, told John he had just got back from Afghanistan, that he had a therapist, that his limp was psychosomatic, that he needed help but that he won't go to his brother due to his drinking problem (!) and that was enough to start with.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." The strange man winked and smiled at John. "Afternoon!"

And then, John fell in love with this Sherlock Holmes bloke.

There is only two kinds of people in the world. There is women... and there is men. Sherlock Holmes was a man. Thin - slim - average. Long feet, for what John could tell - average. Tall - good, average. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was just another man.

Except he wasn't.

Sherlock Holmes grew up within a normal family with parents who loved him; a mother who spoiled him and a father who worked to give him the best. Still, they, until today, were puzzled as to why their son turned out to be a junkie, a heartless bastard who was thirty something, had no steady job, not a fixed place to live, had the brains to be a scientist or a philosopher but yet chose to be a consulting detective.

This same man was so clever he overpowered his professors and lecturers' knowledge. He graduated and got a degree in chemistry without even trying.

Every flat Sherlock had rented, all the landladies offered them to him at 8.7 percent below market value. The landlords, however, looked away when their tenant, Sherlock Holmes, forgot to pay the bills or practised dangerous experiments within the building.

Wherever Sherlock Holmes walks by, an average of seven out of ten men turn to see him, and nine out of ten women do the same.

It was a rare quality this Sherlock Holmes bloke had. Rare, and yet something every man, or woman, has encountered at least once in their lives.

That's the kind of third person in the world. That kind of person not so many people have the fortune (or misfortune!) to meet. And John was lucky (or the unlucky!) to meet.

For Sherlock Holmes was that kind of person who breaks hearts without even trying.

**(2 & 3)**

The landlady said there was another bedroom upstairs. Of course there was a second bedroom. Sherlock would have never told him about the flat hadn't he know there was just one room, right? Right?

And then, three suicides, no wait, four. Right up Sherlock's street... or whatever that street was. There was a woman in pink clothes lying dead on the floor, 'rache' written on the floor, pink nails, no suitcase, a man who was offering him money to spy on Sherlock. What? That bloke looked suspicious and John wondered who this Sherlock Holmes was to have someone secretly 'protecting' him. This bloke he said he cared about him. But did he care as, who knows, a brother or as a lover?

Was Sherlock Holmes even into men?

Ah, no, what, there was a suitcase Sherlock found looking within a five mile radio and then a man named Angelo was bringing them a candle because it was more romantic.

"Girlfriends? Not really my area."

"Holy shit."

"What?"

John looked confused. "Nothing. You're unattached. Just like me."

Ah, he had to open his big mouth. John Watson had to open his big mouth and say that shit and then Sherlock said he was flattered but no, he's married to his work and all that shit and yes.

John knew where this was going. Yes, he practically asked Sherlock out and Sherlock practically said no. But this was the kind of game he never liked to play and yet, as Sherlock had said before, there he was, running after him all around London only to find the guy inside the cab wasn't the killer but just someone with white teeth and a tan that made him look like an almond.

And then, they were panting and laughing at the bottom of the stairs and they were just inches from kissing when their landlady told them there were police officers upstairs. It turned out Sherlock Holmes had been, or maybe still was, a junkie. Lestrade, who some time later would become one of John's bets mates, told Sherlock to cooperate or he was having a drugs bust every day.

Rache wasn't a German word but the pink lady's still born daughter, Rachel, and Sherlock had to get into a cab and face the killer alone and John had to run as fast as he could and kill someone. Ever since he came back from war, he had promised he was going to adjust himself to civilian life. He had no reason to keep a gun. But still, he pointed, aimed, pulled the trigger and killed the man who was threatening Sherlock Holmes' life.

At the end, it was late, Sherlock was wearing a stupid orange blanket and the case was solved. It turned out the man who cared for Sherlock wasn't a criminal mastermind but Sherlock's freak brother who looked after Sherlock as if he were his little virgin sister he ought to protect from the evils of men.

The detective asked John out for dinner/invited him to have dinner/told him where to get dinner/just said where they could eat Chinese and set the very foundations of the following 498 days of their relationship.

On their third day, John was having pints with Greg.

"He's a pain in the arse."

John's dreams vanished. "Really?"

"Hmm. Sally tried to talk to him once. The bastard deduced all her traumatic relationships from the past and told her to stay away from him."

"Why is it that men like him always think they can treat people like crap and get away with it?" Greg said nothing but agreed on everything John said. "Just because he's got those high cheekbones and that arse..."

Greg nodded. "He's got good teeth too."

"Those eyes..." John was lost in thought. "He's not he centre of the fucking universe."

Bill joined them as soon as he saw his employees were doing well and all the clients were happy. "Women, men, they're all the same."

"I won't fall for him." John said decidedly. "I won't."

At the end of their third day, John was being pressed against the wall. Sherlock fucking Holmes was attacking his mouth and pulling at his shirt, his jeans, then his pants and finally asking him to fuck him in his bed.

**(154)**

They were at The World's End, Bill Murray's pub, having pints and watching a football match, when John told them he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Bill and Greg only exchanged looks. They had got used to this. Greg had witnessed the blossom of that relationship since he was always seeing Sherlock and John together, 24/7, solving crimes and running all around London. Bill had read John's blog, which was all about Sherlock and his cases and about how awesome and clever he was that it almost make him feel sick.

"I love him."

"You're joking, right." Greg asked.

John ignored that. "I love his curls."

"Are they natural? I bet he uses product."

"I love his knees."

"Wow, man," Bill laughed. "You're getting a bit graphic there. No anatomic descriptions, will you."

John finished his pint. He kept staring at the football match on telly but he didn't care whether his favourite team was winning or losing. "I love how he looks when he's sleeping."

"Can't imagine that," Greg joked. "Sorry."

John smiled like an idiot. Because that was exactly what he was: an idiot. He was fucking in love with Sherlock Holmes and all that came with him: his ranting, his sulking, his lack of knowledge about the Solar System, his cleverness, his violin, his long fingers, his knees, his toes, his hair, his smile, his experiments, his suits, his impossible long limbs and even the bad breath he had when he woke up.

"He makes me feel like... life's worth it. I don't even need to see my therapist any more."

Now Bill and Greg exchanged looks and both were worried. "This is not good."


	3. Doctor likes Consulting Detective

**(11)**

"Fingernails."

"Fingernails?"

"Yeah, fingernails," John put down his beer and then his eyes moved towards the TV screen. His favourite team was winning and the beer he was drinking was perfect. "And toes. He keeps toes in the microwave."

Bill instructed his employees to keep the clients happy while he was having a rest with his friend Johnny, as everyone knew John at the pub. "You know Johnny, he sounds a bit creepy."

"Creepy? He's a genius!"

"Yeah," Bill rolled his eyes. "You said that before."

"And he's got a dictionary for medical terms - the same one I have."

"Quite compatible you two."

"And..." John's eyes fell on his beer. "I don't know."

The look in John's face made Bill wonder when was the last time he had seen his friend so into someone. Women, men, they were all the same. Bill was personally into women and always had been and understood the moment John confessed he was into both genders.

What Bill couldn't quite get was the fact that John had fallen for certain person Bill believed was going to break his heart: Sherlock Holmes.

For all John had said, the man was a bastard, a cynical, sociopath, sarcastic bastard Bill knew wa going to break his friend Johnny's heart. Yeah, Sherlock Fucking Holmes was that kind of person you ought to stay away from if you don't want to be doomed. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was that guy Bill knew was trouble.

But then, Johnny was into trouble, right?

"You know, Johnny... just because he likes the same crap food you do, your tea, and plays the fucking violin and that arouses you that doesn't make him 'the one'."

John's blue eyes were now on Bill's. "Of course it does. It's Sherlock. And he's perfect."

"I dunno... That bloke..." Bill didn't know whether to tell to his friend or not. "He's a freak."

"Trust me, Bill," John said with a wide smile. "He's the one."

When one strongly believes in something, it takes overwhelming contradictory evidence to change their minds.

**(21)**

Sherlock went missing for three days and came back to Baker Street one Monday morning wearing certain perfume John had never, after twenty one days knowing Sherlock, never felt before.

"Where were you? I almost had to call your brother -"

"Just tea for me, thank you."

That same afternoon, John was drinking coffee with Bill while his friend's employees prepared the pub for the night.

"I think I missed something."

"He had that smile... I don't know," John froze for a moment. "He never smiles. Never. It was that sort of smile 'I-just-went-out-and-spent-the-whole-weekend-shagging-this-guy-I-met-at-Tesco'."

Bill frowned. "Does he do the shopping?"

"Just to buy his supplies."

"Oh."

"Fucking whore."

"Wait... Sherlock Holmes goes to the supermarket? Really?"

John shrugged. "Fuck him. It's over."

While Bill told his employees that tonight there was a football match, and, therefore, there will be lots of people, and, that they had to work hard if he wanted to get good tips, John reflected on everything he had said. It was true that Sherlock had just appeared after being away fro three days without leaving a note or a clue of where he could be, and John, who spent the whole weekend wondering whether to call Mycroft or not, was only told by his landlady that Sherlock used to do that every now and then, the doctor realised Sherlock was someone he could not rely on.

Sherlock Holmes was not a child who ought to tell him where he was going to, or with whom. Sherlock, actually, never told anyone about his whereabouts and John realised Mycroft didn't call him because he knew where he was all along and therefore, he didn't need John fucking Watson to watch his little brother's back.

Of course.

"Johnny, you got problems mate."

"He's not interested in me. It was just one shag," John drank the last of his tea and glanced at this phone only to realise Sherlock hadn't texted him and never would, probably. "There's nothing I can do."

"And how do you know that?"

"He just spent the whole weekend shagging some guy out there."

"And?"

"I gave him all sorts of chances."

Early that day, when Sherlock had just got out of the shower, John prepared tea and left a warm cup on the kitchen table, for Sherlock, next to his microscope.

The detective sat on his chair, his hair still damp, and continued with his investigation over some toes and never drank the tea John made.

**(27)**

"You're Lestrade."

"Greg," Greg shook hands with John and sat next to the medical man. "Nice pub, this one."

John beamed. He was very fond of Bill and he was very happy his little enterprise had turned out like this: a big pub, always crowded, quite famous in London, with some trusty and worth employees, all young men and women who were good workers and helped to build up the fame of the place. Tonight lots of policemen were having drinks and John met again with the famous bloke who handed Sherlock criminal cases.

"Hey, what are you having?"

"Um, just a beer."

"Greg, this is Bill, my friend and owner of the place," John introduced both men. "Bill, he's DI Greg Lestrade."

"A beer for the DI," Bill handed Greg a pint and sat across both men behind the stool. "It's on the house."

Greg smiled and raised his glass. "Thanks, mate. Nice place you have."

"So, you're friends with Johnny?"

"He's Sherlock's friends." John explained, before Greg could say anything.

But, to everyone's surprise, Greg shook his head emphatically. "We're not friends."

Bill said nothing.

"You really thought he's got friends?"

John frowned and smiled. "What d'you mean?"

"Come on, John, don't be stupid."

"I don't really know what you mean."

"He's a pain in the arse!"

"I know, right?" Bill agreed. "I mean, I don't even know him, but by all the things Johnny's been telling me -"

"Wait," Greg grinned a bit. "You like him?"

John almost choked with his beer. "What? No!"

"Yes, he does," Bill interrupted again. "He's fucking in love with him."

"I am not!"

"In love with who?"

And there he was. Sherlock Fucking Holmes was taking a sit next to him and looking around the place as if it were the first pub he was in (actually, it was) and glancing at the clean vases and probably calculating whether they were really clean or not.

"Nothing," John breathed. "What are you doing here anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Bored."

"So you followed me here?"

"I don't need to follow you to know you are here very other night, always drinking two pints, pretending you watch football when you clearly do not do such thing."

Great. Now Sherlock was not only deducing what he was up to, but he was also going to make him look like an idiot in front of everyone.

"So you must be Sherlock."

John made the great show of introducing Sherlock to Bill and the detective finally asked for a pint. Suddenly Greg was saying he was sitting with his co-workers, Bill was seeing to his clients, and Sherlock and John were alone, drinking beer, staring at nothing.

In silence.

"It doesn't exist."

"Hmm?"

"Love."

"How do you know?"

"It's a chemical defect found in the losing side. It only last for a period of time, not 'eternally' as boring people like you think."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I don't even know what that word means. Most marriages end up in divorce, like my parents'."

"Well, mine too."

Thirty minutes later, both were heading to Baker Street, when Sherlock made the question.

"You like me?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm not repeating myself."

"Yes."

"As friends?"

No. "Yes."

"I don't have friends."

"I know."

"Okay."

**(28)**

And just after midnight, Sherlock was kissing John, feverishly, passionately, and as no one has done before.

When John woke up, shortly after ten, he didn't mind the bony limbs tangled with his. He didn't mind feeling Sherlock's curly hair on the nape of his neck, Sherlock's snoring, the smell of Sherlock's feet or how possessive he was.

John ignored Bill's texts. John ignored he had promised his friend he would go with him to visit some old friends from the army. John forgot he had planned a whole day seeing the friends with whom he had cried and gone through lots of things in Afghanistan.

John smiled and his blue eyes fell on the man next to him.

The doctor's blue orbs fell on Sherlock's stupidly soft lips, Sherlock's long legs, Sherlock's hairless chest, Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's bony cheekbones, Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock himself.

Everything and everyone smiled at John. The cashier at Tesco, the guys at Speedy's, Mrs Hudson, the young girls from the shop round the corner, the Russian neighbours who apparently couldn't speak any English.

John walked around the streets of London with a smile on his face.

Sherlock was everything. The sun, the flowers, the wind, the breeze, the whole fucking world.

Sherlock made John feel as if he were in heaven.

And Sherlock would send John straight to hell.

Just like that?

Just like that.


	4. Doctor, Detective and Dog

**(238)**

John watched Gladstone moving his little tail and carrying with him, between his teeth, his leash. The dog let the leash fall and barked once. The detective continued dissecting toes and placing them into different petri dishes, not paying any attention to the dog who was on his feet.

John watched the scene painfully.

Of the two of them, Gladstone had always been closer to Sherlock. Sherlock let Gladstone sleep with them on their bed, he fed him, he took him out for walks around the park and even took him to crime scenes. Sherlock was the one who trained Gladstone and got him to recognise more than a hundred different perfumes.

But now Sherlock barely spared the dog a glance.

"Come on, Gladstone," John took the leash from off the floor and patted the dog's head. "Let's go for a walk."

Just the sounds of the keys brought Gladstone's full attention to John.

From of his own place, Sherlock watched them leaving.

And then, he moved to the windows, where he saw John downstairs on the streets, walking Gladstone, and looking quite miserable.

**(31)**

"A dog."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock's greyish eyes were still on the paper he was reading. He brought a cup of tea to his lips and drank a good amount of it. Ah, John's tea. Always so perfect. He had to go and see how he did it. "We should get ourselves a dog."

John's left hand stopped colouring his toast with that strawberry jam he loved so much. Sherlock Holmes and dogs? Really? He didn't look like the type really. John had known Sherlock for thirty one days, were... lovers... boyfriends... partners... for three days maybe and the detective had never raised the subject - animals.

"I dunno. Mrs Hudson..."

"Mrs Hudson has no say in this."

"She's our landlady."

"Cocker Spaniel or English bulldog?"

John licked his lips clean and smiled at the detective, whose eyes were now on his. God, how much he loved those eyes.

"Whichever you like, love."

Sherlock gave him a little smile.

At the end of the day, John was feeding a very little English bulldog Sherlock named Gladstone. It was all white, with grey smudges all around his little body. The dog was so tiny John feared about its well being in their flat, where Sherlock, sometimes, or most of the time, conducted dangerous experiments, and where they had drug busts every now and then.

Mrs Hudson loved the dog.

The married ones next door loved the dog.

John loved the dog.

And Sherlock loved it too.

The detective was the one who was feeding it using a bottle.

Then, when John sank on his own chair and watched his boyfriend (?) feeding their dog using a bottle, he felt himself complete. He lived in a lovely flat with a lovely man and they had a lovely dog.

"Why Gladstone?"

Sherlock shrugged. John gave him an encouraging look and Sherlock's eyes fell down, on the little dog he was feeding. "Redbeard was its name."

"Mycroft said you wanted to be a pirate."

"It's too little. I think it should sleep with us."

"I'm not washing the sheets tomorrow."

Sherlock stood up, and, ignoring John's remark, he went to bed carrying the baby dog Gladstone in his arms.

**(268)**

"Bad day I take it?"

John said nothing. He went to the back room of the pub and got himself a pack of six cans of beers. Bill watched the scene before him in silence, and finally, he watched his friend taking a seat in an empty table, alone. One by one, John drank all of them.

Bill had never seen his friend like this:unshaven, unkept, unwell. He was sure Johnny had lost some weight - which was unnecessary. There were bags under his eyes and suddenly, he looked twenty years older.

It was that bloke Sherlock Fucking Holmes all over again, for sure. Bill was sure he didn't need to ask.

"Still want to get 'im back?"

"He said we're flatmates."

Ah, that shit all over again. "You should write a book." John gave him an angry look. "_'How to get a freak as a boyfriend_'. I bet it'll sell good."

"Fuck you."

John stood up and left.

Bill dialled Greg's number and warned him about the situation. John was drunk, probably was going to wander around the streets of London for the rest of the night and, if Sherlock Fucking Holmes still insisted on them being flatmates, John would go crazy and probably stab him to death.

**(270)**

"I'm sorry."

Bill knew a good Christian always accepts other's apologies. Of course he was accepting John's apologies. Johnny was his friend, had been for many years, both had suffered war and came alive of it.

"You two back?"

John smiled widely. "Yes."

"Bloody hell."

**(87)**

"Sher!"

"Oh come on! How old are you?"

John's ears were red. They were at a DVD's shop because he just wanted to rent some James Bond films and suddenly Sherlock was dragging him to the porn section and looking for gay porn.

"This one looks not so predictable." Sherlock said, picking up one box. "'Sweet and Shower'," he read it for John and then took the movie with him.

"We're not renting that one!"

Sherlock smiled a bit. "Your gay porn is outdated."

"Shut up!" John hissed when he noticed people were staring at them. "Sherlock!"

That afternoon, Sherlock had a hand inside John's jeans. The film was on and John realised Sherlock had that look on his face - trouble was to come.

"Looks easy enough."

"Uh?"

Sherlock's eyes fell on John. Then, his hand was no longer on John's throbbing member but taking John's and dragging him to the bathroom.

John ended up with a sprained ankle.

**(95)**

"What was it like?"

John's blue eyes were on Gladstone, who was at their feet, moving his little tail, barking at some dogs passing by, then licking some children's sticky hands.

They never spoke about their pasts. John took for granted Sherlock knew everything he needed to know. After all, Sherlock could know everything was just looking.

But now, now that wall that was keeping them apart, was slowly coming down.

"It was hell in the same Earth," John began. "torn limbs... dead children, beaten women. All my friends died out there."

And then, Sherlock placed a hand upon John's.

Sherlock started talking about his past, about the drugs, about those men he slept with for cocaine. He told John all about his parents divorce, about Mycroft, about Redbeard and how his old psychiatrist revealed to his the disintegration of his parents' marriage was what caused him to become a sociopath.

As he listened, John began to realise that these weren't stories routinely told. These were stories one had to earn. He could feel the wall coming down and Sherlock showing himself just like he was. His true self. The doctor wondered if anyone else had made it this far. Which is why the next five words changed everything.

"I've never told anyone that."

John's eyes were no on Gladstone any more. His eyes were on Sherlock's and realisation hit him. Sherlock had chosen to let him in. This was the beginning.

The beginning of everything.

Then, Sherlock's phone went off. Mycroft was being annoying again. Apparently someone stole a very important memory stick and the big brother wanted Sherlock to investigate.


	5. Doctor fights Consulting Detective

**(116)**

"So, what are you?"

"His assistant."

"I think he means if you two are boyfriends," Greg smiled mischievously. "Come on, Johnny. We all know you're more than that."

John took a last sip of his beer and examined the end of his glass. "Is not that simple."

Bill shook his head. "It's not _that_ difficult, Johnny. You two live together, shower together, shave together, eat together, work together. I bet you two shit together too."

"Oh Bill, that's disgusting," Greg complained.

"Why label it?" John looked at each of his friends. "We're adults. We know how we feel and we don't need to label it. 'boyfriends' is just... I dunno."

"Awkward?" Greg suggested.

Bill sighed. "Sexist?"

"I was gonna say 'juvenile'."

**(118)**

John was sitting on a nice chair, drinking a not so good cup of tea, but tea at last, and watching his friend cutting the grass of his small garden of his small but modest and quite nice house in a very calm area in London. Bill's wife was inside baking and the smell was very promising. It made John wish Sherlock could bake, but the last time the detective tried his hand at it, he almost burnt the kitchen down.

How can someone burn a kitchen down?

Ever since Bill and Greg asked him, the question wouldn't let John sleep. What were they? Boyfriends? Lovers? Partners? John wished he could just go and ask Sherlock, for the detective was quite a straight forward person who never had second thoughts.

But that was what actually scared John. What if he asked him and Sherlock just said they were 'flatmates'. John knew it would break his heart. He really liked Sherlock and more or less his entire life revolved around Sherlock Holmes.

"You think I should ask him?"

"Sure mate." Soon Bill noticed John's face. "What?"

John hesitated at first. "Everything's going well. If we start putting labels on it... I dunno."

"I bet he already knows. Just go and ask him."

"Yeah."

Bill forgot all about his garden and took a seat next to John. "Look, Johnny, I don't want to see you getting hurt, okay?"

"Bill..."

"You know what I think about this bloke Sherlock, right?" John nodded. "I see you happy, but he's... he's weird, mate. Just... don't get too involved, okay?"

John pushed Bill's worries aside and soon they were inside Bill's house, eating the exquisite things his wife cooked and talking about other things.

Still, Sherlock Holmes was there, in John's thoughts.

Later that day, when John arrived at Baker Street, he found Sherlock sitting on his desk, his computer open and his eyes focused on some mail one of his friend who happened to be the manager of an important bank and who was worried about one of his best employees who had gone missing.

"You okay?"

"Me? Yes. Just a case. How was Bill?"

"Hmm?"

"Bill Murray. You went to his house today. Three slices of cake?" Sherlock deduced, and John still couldn't believe how he did it since the detective had never spared him a glance ever since he had returned. "I thought you said you wanted to lose some weight."

John sat on his chair and licked his lips. "He's fine."

"Ask me." John remained silent. Sherlock closed his computer and turned to face the doctor. "Whatever you feel the need to ask me, do it. You're incredibly annoying when you think and don't speak."

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" The detective shrugged. "I mean... what is going on here? With us."

Sherlock leaned back on his chair. He felt Gladstone on his feet, comfortably sleeping on the floor. He focused on John and on his eyes, his lovely blue eyes, his sandy hair, always soft, always wild, and then his lips, and there is when he realised he craved for his lips.

"Are you comfortable living here, with me?"

"Yes."

The detective walked to John's chair, and while doing so, got rid of his dressing gown and was now only wearing pair of pyjama trousers. He kissed John on the lips once, just as he knew John liked. "Make love to me."

Those four words changed everything because, as far as John could recall, Sherlock had never said those four words before.

And that's how the subject was totally forgotten.

**(269)**

"Ta, Greg," John said as he accepted a cup of strong coffee, sugarless. "Sorry about last night."

"It's okay. Just don't get drunk again and try to sleep it off in the streets."

John nodded, slightly embarrassed. Last night Greg found him somewhere in the city (John couldn't remember where) drunk, and had taken him to his house where he slept in his spare room.

"Bill called me." John said nothing. "You two angry again?"

"I'll apologise to him. I know he wanted to help -"

"I mean you and Sherlock."

Ah.

"Yeah."

"The 'let's be flatmates' thing all over again?"

"I don't wanna talk about that."

"Well, you _have_ to since you're in my kitchen drinking my coffee and my wife's angry at me and I don't know why, I think it's because of you."

"I hate him."

Greg laughed. "You're not the only one, mate."

"I hate his curls, his bony knees, how he looks when he's sleeping - he always drools over the fucking pillows." This made Greg laugh, but it also made John angrier. "I fucking hate it when he rants and sulks over stupid things. Just because I went to see my sister he didn't talk to me for four days. _Four_ fucking days."

"Just that?" Greg teased him.

John shook his head. "He think he's clever but he doesn't know a thing about the Solar System. 'Everyone is stupid, John', guess what, you fucking genius, you're a fucking stupid too."

"Get it all out, Johnny."

"I hate him."

John resolved he could no longer go on like this. He decided it was time to get over Sherlock Holmes. That same afternoon he went to Baker Street determined to get his things and tell Sherlock Holmes he fucking hated him.

But, to everyone's surprise, John did not get over Sherlock Holmes.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Because now John was more and more into that bloke.

**(125)**

John knew what is to be in danger. He had been to a war, if you don't remember. He had taken a bullet, he had been invalided back to London. Yeah, John Watson pretty knew what was to be in danger.

So even when he had enough semtex tied to his chest, enough to blow up half of London, and when James Moriarty had snipers on Sherlock, John didn't doubt it sand jumped over him. If they ere going to shoot him, they were going to shoot Moriarty too.

But suddenly, the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen was gone and it turned out what John had tied to his chest wasn't semtex but ashes, and that there were no more snipers threatening their lives, they were left alone and waiting for the police to arrive.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't believe you."

John frowned. "What you mean?"

"What you did there... it was stupid."

Wait what?

"What?"

"It was stupid, John!" Sherlock shouted. "Do you really think I can't take care of myself? I know six different fighting techniques."

John was now angry. "You're angry? At me? I almost got myself killed for you!"

"Really? I thought you were playing the hero, like you always do. You think you're protecting me, but you're just doing it for your ego. I don't need your 'protection', John Watson."

The doctor was walking towards the door. The police could go and ask him later.

Or not.

"No, guess what, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on with you."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Sherlock shrugged and scratched his head with the gun, again. "We're just flatmates -"

"Oh, don't pull that with me! That is not how you treat a flatmate. Wanking in Lestrade's office? Holding hands? Shower sex? Come on! Flatmates my balls!"

John went to Baker Street. He climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door behind his back. Forgetting all about that freak Moriarty and the snipers, John merely got rid of his shoes, climbed to his bed and closed his eyes.

Some hours later, he felt two hands taking his and a pair of soft and very warm lips against his own.

"I love you, John."


End file.
